


The Christmas Qunari

by TrouserFreeTuesday



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrouserFreeTuesday/pseuds/TrouserFreeTuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian's parents have always hated whoever Dorian brought home with home. In fact, they've hated most of Dorian's life choices. This year, Dorian's decided to take things one step further: To make home someone his parents are guaranteed to despise. The Iron Bull fits the bill perfectly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Qunari

**Author's Note:**

> Merry late Christmas! (Or early Ukrainian Christmas, however you wanna play it)  
> This was, initially, supposed to be a short jokey fic but it sort of morphed into this. Woops!

 

Technically, it all starts at The Herald’s Rest.

 

Of course, bad ideas rarely appear out of thin air. If Dorian had more time, and infinitely more beer, likely the origins of this particular brand of lunacy could be traced back to Dorian’s infancy. However, for the sake of brevity and Dorian’s overall mental health, it can also be traced back to a series of work emails from last Tuesday.

 

TO: Dorian Pavus ([d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com](mailto:d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com))

FROM: Sera Archer ([ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com](mailto:ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com))

SUBJECT: Let’s get blitzed

Oi, Fancy Pants! Beardy wants to do a bar night. You free this Friday, we can go get sloshed? But not too sloshed, eh? Don’t need you wandering off with some rando again.

 

~GirlLover69~

 

         

TO: Sera Archer ([ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com](mailto:ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com))

FROM: Dorian Pavus ([d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com](mailto:d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com))

SUBJECT: RE: Let’s get blitzed

Sera,

Firstly, I have a cell phone. You have my number.

Secondly, how many times have I asked you to _stop_ sending personal messages to my work email? Because, as far as I can count, it’s now over ten.

 

 

Regards,

Dorian Pavus,

Director of Tevinter History Collection, Orlais Museum of History.

 

TO: Dorian Pavus ([d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com](mailto:d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com))

FROM: Sera Archer ([ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com](mailto:ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com))

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Let’s get blitzed

Phone’s gone. Think I dropped it in a sewer last night. Maybe. Could have been like a week ago. Irregardless, I dont have one. Bar this Friday: Yes, or Yes?

Also! I use your work email because u _only_ respond to your work email. So there!

 

~GirlLover69~

 

 

TO: Sera Archer ([ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com](mailto:ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com))

FROM: Dorian Pavus ([d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com](mailto:d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com)

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Let’s get blitzed

Makers breath, of course you did. It “Regardless” by the way. Irregardless isn’t a word, Sera, just another one of your assaults on my sanity.

 

 

Regards,

Dorian Pavus,

Director of Tevinter History Collection, Orlais Museum of History.

 

 

TO: Dorian Pavus ([d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com](mailto:d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com))

FROM: Sera Archer ([ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com](mailto:ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com))

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: Let’s get blitzed

Wanna fight?

 

~GirlLover69~

 

 

 

TO: Sera Archer ([ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com](mailto:ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com))

FROM: Dorian Pavus ([d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com](mailto:d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com))

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Let’s get blitzed

Certainly. It would be about time we put the reserves of old gun powder to use.

 

Regards,

Dorian Pavus,

Director of Tevinter History Collection, Orlais Museum of History.

 

 

 

TO: Dorian Pavus ([d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com](mailto:d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com))

FROM: Sera Archer ([ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com](mailto:ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com))

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Let’s get blitzed

Fine. Wacko. Not fair U get all the cool shit. Want to know what I get? Fucking nothing but _weird shit_. Just got a shipment of records – including Maryden’s new one. You know, THE ONE WITH THE WEIRD ASS SONG ABOUT ME.

Now answer me, you tit, bar on Friday?

 

~GirlLover69~

 

 

 

TO: Sera Archer ([ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com](mailto:ScissorChamp_69@hotmail.com))

FROM: Dorian Pavus ([d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com](mailto:d.pavus@orlaismuseum.com))

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Let’s get blitzed

 

Of course.

 

Regards,

Dorian Pavus,

Director of Tevinter History Collection, Orlais Museum of History.

 

 

 

In all likelihood, it will be a completely normal Friday night. Sera would start the night with too much tequila, and tell loud embarrassing stories while Blackwall laughed heartily along. Dorian, if he is lucky, will get lucky. Then he’ll wake up in a strangers bed, way too late and way too hungover, but make it down to the tiny Fereldan coffeeshop on far corner of the Market District just in time to have a cup of shitty Fereldan coffee with Sera.

 

This is, naturally, not how things go.        

 

On Thursday, a new donation arrives. The History Museum of Orlais, while generously funded by Empress Celene, often doesn’t have the funds to buy new artifacts (especially, Dorian thinks bitterly, for their section on Tevinter History). Instead, they rely largely on public donations. Sometimes, this is wonderful. An old Tevene map, dated to roughly 7:30 Storm, was donated by the children of a near-senile old man who didn’t understand the value of what they had on hand.  Something so well preserved, from such a tumultuous period of Thedas’s history, would probably make around 20,000 gold from the right collector.

 

However, as Dorian looks as the small cardboard box sitting on the donation table, he has a sinking feeling they won’t be so lucky this time. An intern, a mousy young man who shifts nervously if Dorian so much as looks as him, explains that it was just left at the front desk. Clearly, not something of value to that particular person. Normally there is a modicum of concern and also _paperwork_ to fill out.

 

Dorian’s suspicions are proved to be correct once he opens the box. Inside, surrounded by lots of paper towels, are an assortment of old dinner plates. The designs are indeed Tevinter, a small brand on the back for Archon’s Fine China dating it back to 8:50 Blessed. Old, certainly. Archon’s Fine China stopped producing nearly thirty years earlier, but in their 100 years of business they produced an astounding amount of china sets. Still, each piece needs to be catalogued and appraised. Dorian spends most of the afternoon helping sort everything through, finding approximately nothing noteworthy. As a result, by the time Dorian gets back to his office, it is nearing five and he’s missed several emails. One is a forward from Sera about penile enlargement, which Dorian promptly ignores, the second is a staff-wide email about their Holiday Christmas Party, which Dorian doesn’t read because he’s spotted the third email.

 

TO: Dorian Pavus

FROM: Halward Pavus

SUBJECT: Family Christmas Party

Dear Dorian,

I had hoped to contact you through your personal email, but evidently you don’t check that as often as I’d like. I know you’ve been having a difficult time lately, but we’d like to let you that we’re excited to have you home for the holidays. We still plan on having our Boxing Day party, even though Alexios and Felix will be missed. Are you bringing someone this year? Your mother and I are worried about, Dorian.

With Love,

Halward Palvus.

 

 

This starts the slow descent into insanity. Dorian reads the email aloud at the Herald’s Rest, tone mocking. The pub is slowly filling with people, though it isn’t full yet, and Dorian barely has to raise his voice to be heard.

 

“Worried about you Dorian,” He says aloud, and suddenly is acutely aware of Blackwall’s near pitying look. “Like that’s ever true.”

 

“Bunch’a’assholes,” Sera says, into her drink. She’s already four shots in. “With their…their snotty Christmas parties. Bet they eat shit like _shrimp_ and talk about hints of piss in their wine.”

 

“Ah yes,” Blackwall says fondly, “The rich and their piss-wine, isn’t that right, Dorian?”

 

“Better than the swill they serve here,” Dorian’s remarks. That he’s on his third glass of “swill” goes unmentioned. As will his fourth and fifth drinks.

 

The Herald’s Rest isn’t a particularly remarkable pub. It’s clean, in that the bathroom’s aren’t totally trashed and Dorian isn’t sticking to things, but they could probably do without the ‘rustic’ wooden theme. Their menu consists of three things: beer, pretzels, and deep fried pickles. The pretzels are the only thing that aren’t an active affront to humanity. The beer will at least get you drunk, but it’s not _good_ beer by anyone’s standards. Try as Dorian might, he is entirely unable to find anything good about deep fried pickles. He crinkles his nose in distaste as Sera takes a large bite of one. She always insists on ordering at least one plate of them.

 

“You should fuck with ‘em,” Sera declares, voice muffled by pickle. Still, with the twinkle in her eye, her intent is all too clear.

 

“I don’t follow,” Dorian says, at the same time Blackwall says, “Oh no.”

 

Sera tips her chair backwards slightly, so it rests on the back two legs. “So, here’s the thing. Your parents are wankers, right?”

 

“Sure,” Dorian concedes. Wankers is probably the perfect word, actually.

 

“And, look – you have full permission to bring a person, yeah?”

 

Dorian nods. Blackwall makes a face, sort of like he’s catching on to Sera’s plan. Dorian, on the other hand, is completely in the dark and from Sera’s smile – sharp and almost dangerous – he can’t help but feel both worried and curious.

 

“What if you bring, like, the worst person ever? And I don’t mean worst like that…what’s-his-tits, you know?”

 

It’s clear neither Dorian or Blackwall understand what she’s saying, but both nod regardless, and she continues on.

 

“But like _worst_ for you parents. Something that’d really piss ‘im off.” At this, Sera starts to laugh. “And they’ll make those stupid puckered-up faces – like _this_ – and it would be fucking hilarious. Dorian, you need to do this.”

 

Dorian snorts. “You know, I think I’m such a disappointment anyway it wouldn’t matter who I brought home. _Unless_.” An idea strikes Dorian like a lightening strike. It’s just as quickly doused by the harsh light of reality. The fact that Dorian can still feel that means he likely isn’t drunk enough. “ _Unless_ , either of you happen to know a Qunari.”

 

The relationship between Tevinter and the Qunari had been strained for centuries. Not outright war, any longer, but tense none the less. There were occasional, routine feuds. Just enough to be a reminder that they were supposed to hate each other, but not enough to cause any serious damage to either country. It seemed so inanely contrived it could have been Orleasian. Suffice to say, any self-respecting Tevinter Citizen hated the mere concept of the Qunari. Simply mentioning the Qunari was enough to bring a scowl to the face of a Tevene magister. The actual sight of them, or the idea of their son dating one of them – well, it would drive them batty.

 

It’s not like Qunari are a real presence in Orlais. It’s too far south for any raiding parties to really bother with it. The frivolity of Orlais, too, was hardly in most Qunari’s taste. Dorian’s knowledge of Tevinter history does not quite extend into Qunari culture, but as he understands it they’re almost aggressively simple. No appreciation for arts, or culture. Orlais is supposedly a hotbed of this, but that’s also dependant on whom you ask.

 

Dorian is hardly expecting any further conversation on the matter. After all, Sera was very drunk, and so was Dorian. The idea is still funny once he’s sober, however, and he eyes up his latest one night stand contemplatively. He’s too normal, Dorian figures. Named Alexander, a doctor from Starkhaven, far too conventionally attractive. This is fine for sex. Not for meeting Dorian’s parents. Though Dorian’s parents may still be under the impression that Dorian’s dream match is a pretty girl from Minathros.

 

The logistics of fake boyfriends are also somewhat difficult. Presumably, Dorian would have to pay them. He has no friends he can imaging bringing home. Blackwall would serve as a disappointment, sure, but it isn’t worth it to have any close friends meet his parents. Sera would be an all-around failure and it’s definitely not worth the trouble.

 

Then Blackwall texts him.

 

**Blackwall**

**Hey. Sera says to tell you to come down to Mabari and Sons now. Something about knowing the perfect bloke for you. Sent at 10:36 A.M. November 26 th.**

         

 

Sera’s not exactly much for men, so Dorian does harbour some suspicions about Sera’s choice. That is, until Sera has the man’s Facebook profile up on her phone, swiping through photos. Then, Dorian realizes, Sera may have found the perfect  man. She may have also found the only Qunari in all of Orlais. The Iron Bull is, firstly, huge. Even in pictures he’s visibly massive, crouching down to into the frame of several selfies. Even then the tips of his horns are still cut off. From the looks of him, the Iron Bull is a man who has clearly been in some fights before. His face is scarred, one eye covered by eyepatch, but his grin is toothy and wide. Dorian has never been so thankful for some people’s poor grasp of privacy settings. Essentially all of Iron Bull’s information is public. By the time Dorian’s chai latte is ready, he already knows that Iron Bull is nearing 30, works for Chargers Construction Company, and listens to a lot of Stevie Mitchell. His wall is interspersed with Candy Crush updates. Uniquely and specifically mortifying to bring home. Dorian brings this up with Sera, who nearly beams.

 

“I _knew_ it. He’s interested, by the way. Not in you- well, kind of in you, but mostly in the whole “fancy rich person food thing”. He’s a _huge_ foodie.”

 

“Really?” Dorian says, surprised. He definitely doesn’t look it.

 

“Oh, yeah.” Sera laughs. “Loves _exotic_ food.”

 

From her wink, Dorian has a suspicion that Sera means something explicit. Blackwall’s hearty laugh all but confirms it.

 

“And,” Sera continues, reaching for Blackwall’s phone. He lets her have it with only a little eye roll. She checks something on the phone, humming thoughtfully. “He should be here any minute.”

 

“Sera, _you didn’t._ ” Dorian normally thinks things through. He doesn’t do Sera’s weird brand of madcap planning. He grips his latte harder than needed, scowling at his friend. Her attention is gone however, now directed over Dorian’s shoulder. She makes a silly face, eyes crossing and tongue sticking out, before waving someone over. Dorian feels his stomach start to sink.

 

The Iron Bull is in the line of the coffeshop. He’s even bigger in real life, easily over six feet tall and _wide_ as well. The construction job clearly suits him. Despite the winter chill, he wears no coat, and the sleeves of his red sweater are rolled up to reveal muscular biceps. An unusual silence has fallen over the café, only the quite murmur of folksy Christmas music filling the air. This doesn’t make the situation any less strange. Certainly, many people here haven’t even seen a Qunari before. It is evident on the confusion on everyone’s face. The barista shrinks back, presumably towards the nearest phone. A young man hammering away at his laptop is, almost pointedly, staring at the abstract art piece on the wall as if trying to discern it’s meaning. Iron Bull seems entirely oblivious to the looks. He smiles at Sera, then nods towards Blackwall. His expression changes at Dorian, slightly less friendly. It feels as if Iron Bull is scrutinizing Dorian, his one grey looking him up and down. The few times Dorian has met a Qunari it’s always felt like, suddenly, the whole weight of Tevinter/Qunari relations is bearing down on them. Unfortunately, Dorian isn’t presenting a very good image of anything right now. Kohl-smudged eyes, haphazardly styled hair, and visibly hungover; he certainly looks like quite the mess. Regardless, he straightens up and tries to look as put-together as possible.

 

“Sera! Hey, how’s it going?” Iron Bull asks, loudly.

 

“I’m good!” Sera says. “Bull, Dorian – Dorian, The Iron Bull.” She gestures wildly between the two of them. Iron Bull extends his hand. Even with the missing fingers, it’s still large enough to nearly cover most of Dorian’s. The Iron Bull’s hands are calloused, rough, and tickle faintly against Dorian’s palm.

 

“Pleasure,” Iron Bull says.

 

“Likewise,” Dorian replies. It’s not clear if either mean it, exactly. Iron Bull looks cheery enough, but Dorian is still being leveled with the same look all Qunari give him.

 

“Beardy, you and me are going to-“ Sera stops, as though she hadn’t thought her sentence through. Dorian isn’t too surprised. “Sod it, we’re just going.”

 

Blackwall chuckles. “G’day, Dorian, and it was nice to see you again, Bull. Your Chargers did good work fixing up the Rec center, by the way.”

 

“’Course they did,” Iron Bull says proudly. “They always do good work, wouldn’t be able to pay ‘em otherwise.”

 

The idle chitchat only serves to fill a few blanks. The Chargers do a lot of public work, and The Iron Bull is obscenely proud of them.

 

With Blackwall and Sera gone, Dorian is left struggling with starting a conversation with Iron Bull. The Iron Bull almost doesn’t seem to mind, staring contentedly around the restaurant instead. He gives Dorian a few expectant looks, as if waiting for Dorian to start.

 

“What has Sera told you?” Dorian asks finally.

 

Iron Bull shrugs. “That she had a friend who was looking to bring a guy home for Christmas, and that there’d be good food.”

 

Dorian’s eyebrows rise. “And you agreed to meet me based on that?”

 

“Sure. It’s not exactly everyday someone wants to pull a Lifetime Movie, I was curious.” Iron Bull cocks his head to the side.

 

“Yes. Well.” _Lifetime movie_. That chafes slightly. “In that vein, I will pay you. I don’t expect anyone to tolerate my parents for free. Ideally, that’s as far as that similarity will go.”

 

The Iron Bulls nodes slowly. Both of his hands are folded on the table, like he’s at a business meeting. It rather is, Dorian supposes. “How much?”

 

This is the problem with Sera’s seat-of-the-pants life method is situations like this, where Dorian is left floundering for the wage of a fake-boyfriend.

 

“Unfortunately, I’m not exactly rolling in riches. Nine gold a day, plus food and lodging?” It’s already a lot of money. Dorian has to force himself to breath, to hope that The Iron Bull isn’t going to negotiate up.

 

“Make it seven,” Bull says, to the surprise of Dorian. “Like I said, I’m curious. And Sera made it sound like there would be _good_ food.”

 

Dorian snorts. “Certainly. If there is one thing Tevinter parties do correctly, it’s food and drinks.”

 

This seems to appease The Iron Bull, who nods in agreement. The next hour or so is spent discussing terms and strategy. The Iron Bull evidently has no Christmas plans of his own (“Not exactly something you celebrate under the Qun), so there’s no issue spending the holiday at the family mansion. It’ll be a week trip, it’s decided, driving up to Tevinter just before Christmas and leaving the morning after the Pavus Christmas Party. The appropriate amount of PDA is discussed: Minimal, not enough to go outside of Dorian’s comfort zone, but enough that Dorian’s parents will be uncomfortable. Dorian doesn’t phrase it that way, of course, so when Dorian asks if Bull is willing to do something about his appearance, Bull seems to misunderstand.

 

“You want me to be a bit fancier?” Bull asks. “I can do that. I’ve got a few dress shirts and ties I can drag out.”

 

“No, no!” Dorian says quickly, and Bull freezes. “Do you have anything…worse than that? Grubbier looking, perhaps?”

 

Bull arches an eyebrow. “What, exactly, do you want me to be here?”

 

Dorian suspects he’s hit a nerve. The Iron Bull’s expression has gone carefully blank as he stares Dorian down. And it’s just occurring to him that perhaps asking for a “dirty” Qunari stereotype isn’t going to go over well.

 

Andraste help him, he’s an idiot.

 

“I have,” Dorian says carefully, “A bit of a reputation to uphold.”

 

This does little to appease Bull, but he allows Dorian to continue.

 

“My parents and I don’t exactly…see eye to eye on many things. My love life being amoung them.” There. Succinct. Leaves the painful bits out, to be waded through later or never. “They’ve been pestering me to bring someone to Christmas for years now, only for them to inevitably wind up hating them because they’re not who they would have picked. So, in return, I’d like to bring home someone my parents will despise.”

 

There’s a pause, before Bull says, “So, you’re doing this to piss off your racist parents?”

 

Dorian nods. Among other things. “That about sums it up.”

 

“I can work with that. Got a few muscle shirts I wear at the gym, that suitable enough?”

 

A muscle shirt wearing, construction working Qunari. “That, I imagine, will be perfect. By the way, is that your car outside?”

 

A large van, white and slightly rusted, is parked right outside of the store’s large window. On its side is a painted Qunari, holding a hammer and saw, with a hard hat placed curiously between its horns.

 

Bull nods, almost fondly. “Yup.”

 

“I’ll pay for gas if we can take it.”

 

         

Numbers are exchanged and Dorian thinks that will be it. There’s around month until they need to leave, so life will resume as normal until he leaves town with a strange Qunari in a shitty looking van. Naturally, as Dorian’s life seems determined to remind him, things don’t normally go as planned. First, the seemingly meaningless China turns out to be a rare discontinued line that is worth far more than expected. Still historically insignificant, but worth a pretty copper.

 

Secondly, The Iron Bull actually _texts_ him. At first, just about Christmas, but far more often than Dorian is anticipating.

 

**The Iron Bull**

**Hey, how’s it going? Just wondering – is a dirty work shirt acceptable even with sleeves? Sent at 1:20 A.M, December 2 nd.**

 

Anything is acceptable so long as you don’t look respectable. Dirty work anything is fine. Sent at 12:03 P.M, December 2nd.

 

**Gotcha. You like ‘em dirty then ;) Sent at 12:05 P.M, December 2 nd.**

 

Dorian stares, blankly, at his phone. Heat is rising to his cheeks. Maker’s breath, is this really happening? How is he expected to respond to this? Does he flirt back, maker forbid? He’s sitting in his office, eating a sandwich, looking at dry work emails. This is hardly the time, he thinks, as he stares at his phone and formulates a reply.

 

Hardly, nothing so plebeian. I prefer ‘them’ regularly bathed. Sent at 12:25 P.M., December 2nd.

 

**Hah! Whatever suits you, big guy. Sent at 12:27 P.M., December 2 nd.**

        

Dorian has to wonder if Iron Bull is always so forward, for lack of a better word. When he visits Music Mart to talk to Sera, she claims it’s just what he’s like.

 

“That’s just..well, that’s just Bull, y’know?” She’s sorting through records and CDs, though her organizational system is unclear. It bears a lot of similarities to the rest of the store, which looks as if it were quickly thrown together by junk found in back alleys. It’s hidden away in one of the cheaper Market Streets of Orlais. Anything like this would not do in the Market Quarter itself, with all its stone arches and gilded leafing. The Music Mart has the sort of entrance you’d mistake for a seedy drug dealers makeshift storefront, if not for the sign hanging above the wood, in wood and white paint, reading: “Orlais Music Mart”. The interior looks no better. Dim, yellow lights, with a sort of orangey-brown carpet. Records are stuffed into milk crates, placed on dusty wooden tables. The few CDs they have are simply piled onto a clear table, with a sign reading: “ **ALL CDS – 50 SILVER EACH”**.

 

“Doesn’t mean anything by it,” Sera continues. “If he’s bothering you, you can always tell him to knock it off, yeah? Or tell me! I’ll tell him to piss off for you.”

 

“Yeah,” Dorian says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

***

 

Dorian’s lying in bed, with a tawny-skinned stranger asleep next to him, when his phone chirps. The man next to him stirs slightly, murmuring something and shifting, but ultimately remains asleep. A notification pops up.

 

“9:50 A.M. The Iron Bull: [Image Attached]”

 

“9:53 A.M. The Iron Bull: Suitable Christmas party attire?”

 

There are few words for the trepidation Dorian feels when he opens the message, only to have him almost laughing with what’s actually there. Attached is a selfie of Bull, standing in front of an enormous mirror. He’s beaming in the photo, visible despite the hand and camera in front of his face. It looks as if Bull was careful not to obscure his eyepatch, which has now fallen victim to a bedazzler. Green, sparkling gems make the shape of a Christmas tree, with a large yellow star on top. It’s nauseatingly festive on it’s own, and that ignores the rest of the outfit. How The Iron Bull fit a wool sweater over his horns is a mystery, but he did it. This is a dark, piney-green, with white garland wrapped around like Bull is a living, breathing Christmas tree. Small pom-poms, styled after baubles, also look as if they’ve been glued to the sweaters. There’s some sort of Nordic pattern on Iron Bull’s tights, with white reindeer dancing against a black drop row by row.

 

Dorian snorts despite himself, then rolls his eyes.

 

That’s utterly revolting. You look like you were vomited on by the Spirit of Christmas. Sent at 10:00 A.M. December 10th.

 

**Hey, whatever floats the Christmas Spirit’s boat. Seriously though, never really done this Christmas thing before. Gotta get it right, right? Sent at 10:03 A.M. December 10 th.**

Seriously? Christmas never? Does this Qun of yours have something against seasonal overdrinking? Sent at 10:05 A.M. December 10th.

 

**The Qun works for some people. It does somewhat miss the point of ceremonial holidays though. You hardly need it though, with a proper Qunari drink. Shit’ll burn your throat, but nothing gets you drunk faster. Sent at 10:11 A.M. December 10 th.**

Ah. So no appreciation of needless frivolity, then? I will say, I have difficult time picturing any Qunari sitting at the bar drinking a Shirley Temple. Sent at 10:14 A.M. December 10th.

 

**Guess you haven’t been a bar with me, then. Sent at 10:16 A.M. December 10 th.**

No, I rather suppose I haven’t. Sent at 10:34 A.M. December 10th.

 

 

Somewhere in the month, Dorian finds himself enjoying The Iron Bull’s texts, though he’s loathe to admit it. As terrifyingly and upsettingly festive as Bull is, having him along for Christmas could be a marked improvement over the previous years.

 

**The Iron Bull**

**Hey, what would you say to improving Qunari/Tevinter relations? Sent at 1:21 P.M. December 18 th.**

 

Is this a sex thing? Then no. Sent at 1:25 P.M. December 18th.

 

**Hah! Well it certainly could be, but that isn’t what I had in mind. Sent at 1:27 P.M. December 18 th.**

I’m not entirely sure if I want to know what you do have in mind. Sent at 1:31 P.M.

 

**You’ll like it, I promise. How late is the museum open? Sent at 1:33 P.M.**

Dorian’s in his office when the Iron Bull shows up, rapping on the doorframe. He’s smiling, holding two to-go cups in his hands. “Hey. You like chai lattes, right?”

 

“I-yes, I do.” Dorian tilts his head to the side, curiously. Bull puts one of the cups down on his desk. “Thank you.”

 

“Good. I asked Sera, but I wasn’t sure if she was messing with me. So, this is where you work, huh?”

 

“In all it’s splendor.” Dorian works in a small, square room with a window overlooking the Science Gallery’s atrium. The white walls are lined with shelves, which in turn are all full of books on Tevinter history. Several have Dorian’s name on the spine. Those, he’s quite proud of. His desk is a cluttered pile of files and paperwork, with a small clearing for his morning. Bull’s gaze lingers on the single photo on Dorian’s desk. It’s childish really, a red and yellow frame that says “#1 Granddad”, with a photo of Sera and Dorian scowling at the camera. It had been taken at some street festival a few summers ago. Sera had given it, framed, to Dorian as a birthday gift a year ago.  “Mind telling me about your big plan?”

 

Bull chuckles. “It’s not exactly big.” He pauses for a second. “Do you ever do tours of the gallery?”

 

Dorian scratches at his moutasche. “It’s not exactly in my job description, we do _have_ tour guides for this purpose, you know?”

 

“Yeah, well, we’ll have to spend some time together before we try and pretend we know each other at all. It’s gonna be real obvious if we don’t.”

 

“Oh, very well.” Dorian sighs. With a warm latte in his hands it’s hard to feign disappointment. “You’ll be the first in a long while to witness a Pavus Gallery Tour, you best cherish it.”

 

“Oh, I intend too.”

 

 

The Tevinter Gallery is on the second floor of the main hall of the museum. It’s nestled between the section on Orlais’s trade history, and the even smaller Dalish history section. Bull makes a surprisingly good guest, keeping a respectful distance and asking actual questions. Dorian hasn’t given a tour to anyone but the board members, but he’s heard the guides complain about the trivial questions on a regular basis. Bull never asks how old anything is. Instead, he asks questions about preserving the items. How do they keep old swords from rusting, what temperature to they need to keep the gun powder at?

 

“You seem pretty well versed in this,” Bull remarks, after Dorian explained about all the safety procedures they had to follow just to keep live gun powder around.

 

Dorian shrugs. “I did get my doctorate, you know. They’re not exactly handing away these positions to people with no experience.”

 

“Fair point.” Bull chuckles. “Did you go to school in Tevinter?”

 

“For a few years,” Dorian answers. “I left for Fereldan for a few years, then came here.”

 

Bull hums. “So, you’ve been all over then.”

 

“Something like that, yes. How about you? Qunari don’t really do ‘schools’, do they?”

 

“Not in the way you do, no. Tamassrans teach the children, and after that it would be something like an apprenticeship until you find your path.”

 

Dorian settles on a bench, Bull sitting next to him. In front of them is a large painting of an old Tevinter emperor. A man, in a robe of gilded purple, stands surrounded by thousands of awe-struck faces.

 

“And, you? What was your path?” Dorian asks.

 

“Ben-Hassarath,” Iron Bull responds. “Spy. Been out of it for years now.”

         

“Aren’t spies supposed to be..secretive about this sort of thing? Lady Nightingale never mentions anything of her real identity.”

 

Bull shrugs. “Word always gets out. I find it’s faster to be upfront and stop the fallout while you can.” Bull smiles are Dorian, a half-hearted sort of thing. Dorian suspects it wouldn’t be wise to pry too far into this. If just because he isn’t sure he wants to know. It would explain the scarring on Bull’s face, and the missing figners.

 

“Well,” Dorian says, after the silence has dragged on for too long.  “Bringing a Qunari spy home. That will certainly go over well.”

 

Bull laughs. Dorian thinks about how unexpectedly warm Bull’s laugh is. It’s charming.

 

For a Qunari.

 

***

 

The day they’re supposed to leave, the Iron Bull rolls up outside of Dorian’s apartment at a time far too early for Dorian. Nearly half past ten for the rest of the world, but for a proper day off anything earlier than 11 is a waste. Especially when he needs time to apply Kohl to his eyes and style his hair. Bull waits, relatively patiently outside, and actually _opens_ the door for Dorian so he can get in. Bull’s dressed comfortably, if unpleasantly. Puce pants affront Dorian’s eyes, and he visibly holds in the scowl. The sweater, a baggie hoodie, is a nice neutral black at least.

 

“How’s it going?” Bull asks amiably. He settles into the drives seat.

 

“Perfectly fine,” Dorian answers. “Yourself?”

 

“Got the prospect of good Tevinter food ahead of me, I’m great. Hey, you care what we listen too?”

 

Dorian shrugs. “Not particularly.”

 

Dorian has never considered himself to be fussy about music. Certainly, he prefers classical over much, but he’s not one to stick his nose up anything. He has to put with Sera’s glam-rock music tastes, after all. Still, when Nicki Minaj starts thumping through the speakers, Dorian can’t help but be surprised.

 

“She’s good,” The Iron Bull remarks, noticing Dorian’s expression. “Catchy.” As if to prove a point, he taps his fingers loudly on the wheel. The bass is loud, the sort of thing that shakes the entire van. Dorian suspects it won’t take much though. The van is old, and rattling. Like a hard enough bump will sent the whole thing spilling to pieces like a dropped lego set. The dashboard has a nice wood finish that hasn’t been used in any car in over twenty years. The soft fabric seats are worn, but comfortable, with an unsteady looking gear shift between them. The rearview mirror has been taped back into place. The whole thing gives the impression of being about to fall apart at any second. “So, take the Imperial Highway north, then? Should we stop for food before we hit the road?”

 

“Probably a wise idea,” Dorian says. “It’s a few hour drive to get there. Did you have a place in mind?”

 

The Iron Bull hums, thoughtfully. “I _might_. You ever had Par Vollen food before?”

 

Dorian shakes his head.

 

The Iron Bull makes a left, heading down a cobbled Val Royeaux side-street. Once, the streets had been used for horse-drawn carriages, now cars are cramped into sidestreets and Iron Bull drives slowly. “Since I’m getting a taste of fine Tevinter cuisine, only fair I show you something different too.”

 

The houses lose their distinct Orlais shine, growing simpler as Bull takes them through the city. It’s not a part of town Dorian recognizes. The people and stores are unfamiliar. Signs posted in Tevene, Neveran, even Qunlat mark the stores and food trucks. The Iron Bull rolls his window down, and Dorian is accosted with smells. The air smells like warm spices, curry and cloves and reminds Dorian of the trade section of Minrathous. He’d sneak over there sometimes with Felix when then were young, purchasing Fereldan sweets and Starkhaven ale.

 

Over Nicki Minaj (still playing. Bull owns her CD, apparently), the streets are loud. Someone, somewhere, is playing music on a lyre while another is playing a different song on what sounds like a flute. The conversations all blur together, into a chaotic blur of noises and sounds.

 

Finally, the pull up along the side of the road. There’s a food truck ahead of them, the writing unmistakably Qunlat. The Iron Bull grabs his wallet, and hops out. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

 

Dorian can hear Bull’s voice clearly as he orders. It would seem Bull goes here often. Though Bull speaks Qunlat, his tone is warm and friendly and he throws his head back to laugh at something the merchant says. When Bull returns, he’s holding two sticks, both skewered with meat. Dorian eyes it with suspicion when Bull hands it to him. The meat looks properly cooked, at least, but the hygiene of food served from a truck is suspect. Vegetables, seasoned and browned, are layered between the chunks of meat.

 

“Meat on a stick,” he remarks. “Novel.”

 

 Bull laughs. “Don’t knock it just yet. It’s called a _kebab_. Not the height of Par Vollen delicacies, sure, but the market for Qunari food is pretty small out here.”

 

They drive off, this time heading for the Imperial Highway. Bull tears into the kebab, humming happily. Dorian picks the meat off the stick, first checking to see if it’s cooked before finally eating it. He refuses to eat things off a stick. Bull looks over, and snorts a laugh, but says nothing.

 

The Imperial Highway is an old bit of Tevinter history, built during the height of the Empire. Now, the old Tevinter is all but gone but the highway remains. Most nations have agreed that the road is too usual to do away with, regardless of their current relations with Tevinter. The road has been fixed and updated so many times it hardly resembles the initial state of the road, but expecting cars to go down centuries old roads would be foolish indeed. The Orlais countryside is pastoral, if cold. This far north, it does not snow as much as it would in Emprise Du Lion, but the grass is white with frost and skeletal trees are trapped with thin layers of snow. It’s been an unusually cold year back home too. Minrathous itself had it’s first proper snowfall in probably a decade.

         

“You know,” Bull says after an hour or two of driving. “We’ll need a story.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Like, a relationship story. Where’d we meet? First date, first kiss, stuff like that.”

 

Dorian frowns. Of all the silly oversights to have. “Shit.”

 

Bull shrugs. “We’ve got time. How long have we been together?”

 

Dorian pauses to think. The last time he’d brought someone home had been years ago. His parents aren’t on his Facebook, so that doesn’t need to factor in, thank god. “A year and a half or so.”

 

Bull nods. “Okay. So, first date?”

 

It’s a surreal experience, constructing a whole relationship in the span of a few hours. Especially with the added difficulty of making sure it’s something Dorian’s parents will hate. Dorian and Iron Bull met, rather fortunately, while the Chargers were doing some construction work near the Orlais Museum of History. Five months later, they’d ran into each other at The Herald’s Rest.

         

 

It’s here that Bull goes into _far_ too much detail about exactly how the night had gone down, and Dorian tries to forget all about it. The flush in his cheeks are a harsh reminder each time he looks at Bull. Regardless, after that night they’d been joined at the hip. Dorian hates to admit it, but Bull has a knack for this. Either at lying to making up relationships, Dorian isn’t sure, but he’s _very_ good.

 

With a relationship created, Bull settles into chatting amiably. There’s not much they have in common (almost nothing, in fact), but Bull manages an easy flow of conversation that lasts until they pull up outside the Pavus’s house.

 

The garage is detached, but a small path leads from the paved driveway to the gleaming white steps that lead to the front door. The house is suitably expensive looking, a grey three storey with arched windows and an expanse of yard. The Christmas decorations are minimal, with a trimming of white Christmas lights wrapped around the deck railing and along the roof. In Val Royeaux decorations are everywhere, and families compete for “best decorated house”. Dorian, admittedly, prefers the Tevinter look. Still, Orlais is a step up from the weird Fereldan tradition of inflatable lawn ornaments. Bull lets out a low whistle as he takes the house in.

 

Dorian wishes there was a camera to capture his parents reaction the moment Bull enters the threshold. First, delight – after all, the only son had arrived home – then, slow, descending horror as the giant Qunari steps in and wraps his arm around Dorian. Then, and this was Dorian’s favourite bit, the reddening of Halward’s face as the pieces of the puzzle fell together.

 

“Hey,” Bull says, taking Halward’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “Pleasure.”

 

“Mom, Dad,” Dorian says, leaning into Bull. “This is The Iron Bull.”

 

“Oh,” Aquinae says faintly. “How nice of you to bring your….friend here for Christmas.”

 

“Well,” Dorian says with a laugh. They’ve been trying the friend thing each time Dorian’s brought someone home. “Boyfriend, actually, but yes, quite nice indeed.”

 

“Charmed,” Aquinae manages. “You can leave your stuff in your room. We’ll be eating in an hour.”

 

Dorian’s old room has been, vaguely, maintained. The furnishings are the same, but all decorative bits have been replaced with generic art. Halward and Aquinea have since given up on the separate rooms nonsense, so Bull and Dorian carry their bags up to the third floor. Dorian tosses his bags on the ground and examines the room again. The books on the shelf look untouched, textbooks and nonfiction from Dorian’s university days. The Iron Bull settles in on the bed, with his hands tucked behind his neck.

         

“Nice digs,” he says.

 

“Thanks,” Dorian responds, “Home sweet home, and all that.” The meaning isn’t there, of course, and he’s not trying to fool anyone. He pulls _Intro to Politics_ off the self, flipping through the pages.

 

“Pity.” Normally Dorian is against damaging books, but this had been the exception. Where chapters on the minutiae of political discourse should have been was a hole. “Looks like I’m going whiskey-less.”

 

“This going to be the sort of holiday you can’t survive sober?”

 

“I’ve never tried before. I can’t say I see the point of starting now.”

 

Bull laughs. “Gotcha. We can swing by a liquor store tomorrow, then. Hey, you want the bed tonight or me?” He bounces, once, on the bed, as if to make a point. The bed hardly even squeaks.

 

“You don’t need to do this, you know,” Dorian tells him. “This being nice thing. I’m paying you to do this, I don’t need any favours.”

 

This gets little more than a shrug out of The Iron Bull. “I’m always nice. Doesn’t make much sense to start causing problems if we’re going to be sharing a room for a few days. What’s considered inappropriate dinner attire?”

 

Dorian and The Iron Bull select a pair of cargo shorts (which Dorian insists on being personally offended by), and a ratty work T-Shirt. They’re on the way out the door when Bull grabs Dorian’s shoulder. “Hey, wait a sec.”

 

With no further warning, The Iron Bull’s hand is in Dorian’s hair. Dorian squawks, swatting away Bull’s hand. His hair _feels_ out of place and the moment Bull’s hand is gone Dorian is desperately trying to fix it.

 

“There,” The Iron Bull says, as if he’s accomplished something. “The disheveled look suits you.”

 

“Everything suits me,” Dorian responds, perhaps petulantly. The implication of Bull’s words leave Dorian flushing, until they reach the dining room. Then, Dorian owns it. He slips his hand into Bull’s as they enter. Bull squeezes, and this is the sort of kindness thing that Dorian was telling him about. The dining room is part of the ‘open concept’ living area. A tree, real and so tall it almost reaches the ceiling, is in the corner by the arched living room window. The back of the leather, sectional couch faces that dining room table. The table, Dorian recalls, was expensive. Sturdy, polished oak with hand carved legs. With just his parents, sitting at either end, the table looks notably empty. The Iron Bull pulls a chair out. Then stares expectantly at Dorian.

 

Oh. Dorian sits down, murmuring thanks. Bull then sits down next to Dorian, reaching an arm out to wrap around Dorian and the back of the chair. Though it’s clearly just part of the act, the way Bull’s thumb is tracing circles along Dorian’s neck is giving him shivers. Still, his parents look as if they’re repressing deep feelings of disgust, so Dorian leans into it just a little bit more.

 

“So,” Halward manages. “What does this…friend of yours do, Dorian?”

 

“Construction,” Bull responds brightly. “I run my own company, actually.”

 

“Ah.” Halward takes a sip of his wine. “How delightfully middle-class.”

 

Bull shrugs. “Suits us just fine.”

 

Dorian notices the way both his parents still at ‘us’. Bull seems too as well, judging from his smug smile and the way he squeezes Dorian’s shoulder.

 

“It sure does,” Dorian agrees, with his best sickly-sweet smile. His parents eyes widen, and Dorian, feeling daring, presses a quick kiss to Bull’s cheek. “Doesn’t it?”

 

Bull hums contentedly.

 

His parents are delightfully docile during the meal. Though there’s a moment over roast duck where Dorian can see the conversation turning towards his life choices, and how inevitably incorrect they are, the Iron Bull takes that exact moment to belch. Loudly, and obnoxiously. Aquinae nearly drops her fork. Dorian’s laugh, and the way he squeezes Bull’s hand, is delightfully earnest that time. Any other day, the poor table manners would be appalling. Except, it would appear Bull has excellent table manners. He doesn’t look at all overwhelmed by the assortment of cutlery, and actually grabs the correct fork for the main course before Dorian nudges him with his knee. A Qunari with table manners, interesting.

 

 

*******

 

“Your parents are a piece of work,” Bull remarks after the meal. They’re settled into the second family room, on opposite ends of a couch. Halward had quickly retreated to his study, while Aquinea left the house entirely. Likely to a friends house, for wine and whining about Dorian’s choices.  Bull leans back, feet propped up on the coffee table. He massages his knee with one hand. “But they sure know how to give a food meal. What was that dessert thing called, anyway?”

 

“ _Patina de piris_. It’s a sort of dish with pears. My mother’s favourite.”

 

“Well,” Bull says. “It was fucking delicious.”

 

“You certainly ate enough of it.” Most of it, in fact. Dorian had quite a lot as well. It’s been some time since he’s enjoyed proper Tevinter cuisine. Between feeling full, and the wine, Dorian is feeling delightfully warm and fuzzy. “I think my parents are suitably scandalized.”

 

“Your dad almost choked on a grape at one point. Is there a remote for this TV anywhere?”

 

“They should be in the compartment under the armrest.”

 

“Thanks.” The Iron Bull flicks though the channels slowly. Dorian’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

 

**Unknown Number**

**Oi! Its Sera. New phone, bitchess!!!!! Sent at 9:38 P.M. December 20 th.**

 

Oh, delightful. Does this mean I’ll get treated to even more of your irrelevant messages? Sent at 9:38 P.M., December 20th.

**La-de-fricken-da, I’m Dorian and I’m a right wanker who knows big words. Sent at 9:39 P.M., December 20 th.**

 

Better than forgetting the word “arcade”. Sent at 9:40 P.M. December 20th.

**Oh, sod off. Sent at 9:40 P.M. December 20 th.**

**How’s the family thing going? Sent at 9:40 P.M. December 20 th.**

 

Surprisingly well, so far. Bull is making quite an impression. Sent at 9:41 P.M. December 20th.

**Bull always does! It’s boring round here without you, by the way. Widdle and I are trying to find fireworks to set off on Christmas Eve. Something that’ll really scare Santa off. Sent at 9:44 P.M.**

 

I-Well. Yes, that will do it. Please don’t burn Val Royeaux before I return home. Sent at 9:46 P.M. December 20th.

**Boom! Sent at 9:46 P.M. December 20 th.**

 

 

“You’d think that, with so many channels, there’d actually be something on.” Bull remarks, finally. He’s still flipping through the channels. The TV is long and rectangular. Bigger than Dorian’s TV at home, but it pales in comparison to the 60-inch TV in the main living room. This one had always served as a spare. The spot Dorian and his similarly outcast-y friends would be carted off to avoid offending anyone’s delicate sensibilities.

 

Dorian huffs a laugh. “Yes, well, my parents like to have as many options as possible.”

 

“Clearly.” Bull says wryly. “Oh! This is a good one.”

 

“What is this?” Dorian asks. The camera shakes, as if it’s being held by a nervous cameraman, and two characters appear to be screaming at each other. It’s impossible to tell, though, because it’s been replaced with monotone beeps.

 

“Orlais Tomb Raiders. These teams of Orleasian archeologists go around and try and explore haunted tombs. It’s crazy.”

 

“Haunted tombs? Really?”

 

Bull snorts. “’Haunted’ used loosely. They spend most of the episodes screaming at each other.”

 

 

Dorian doesn’t want to be invested. It’s trite, at best. He’s an actual historian and he’s never heard of these buffoons. However, after about five minutes, he’s laughing along with Bull. There’s all sorts of ridiculous assertions. That the Free Marchers conquered the Dales briefly, or that the Orleasian royalty worshipped lizards. Dorian can’t help but snort and jeer.

 

After several episodes, Dorian’s eyelids are growing heavier, and he and Bull have shifted closer together to share the one blanket. It’s probably too intimate, but Dorian is too comfortable to care too much about it. Eyes-half closed, with Bull laughing at the TV, Dorian leans over just a bit more until his head hits something warm and solid and falls asleep.

 

*******

 

Dorian wakes up to sunlight beaming down on his face. He shifts, groans, recognizes the feeling of the pillow beneath his head. Slowly, he stretches out, moving slow sleep heavy limbs.

 

“G’morning,” a deep voice says. Dorian rolls over, opening his eyes. Bull is sitting, shirtless, at the desk. Dorian’s eyes linger, perhaps for too long, on the musculature of Bull’s back and arms.  His laptop is open in front of him, and it looks as if Bull is in the middle of writing an email.

 

“Ugh,” Dorian says, rolling back over to bury his face in a pillow. “Put your shirt on.”

 

“Don’t like the view?” Bull says with a laugh,

 

“Not unless I’d like to throw up. How’d I get back here anyway?” He doesn’t remember walking to his room, and yet, here he is.

 

“I carried you. You were out cold,” Bull says. “Drooling on my arm and everything.” There’s a rustling noise, and when Dorian looks up Bull is zipping himself into a sweater. He swivels his chair round to face the bed, grinning lazily at Dorian.

 

“I don’t drool.” Dorian says, affronted.

 

“You wanna try that with someone you didn’t literally drool on last night?”

 

Dorian huffs. He shifts so he’s sitting up, back propped up by pillows. “Are you working?”

 

Bull chuckles. “Kind of. Just making sure we’ve all got our ducks in a row for once holiday season is over. All the boys got the week off. Most of ‘em have family somewhere else, didn’t seem fair to keep them working over Christmas.”

 

Dorian pulls his knees up into his chest, and rests his chin there. “But you yourself don’t celebrate Christmas?”

 

“Eh. Never really had the chance until recently, that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop anyone else from having fun. I have seen the Grinch, you know.”

 

That’s a movie Dorian hasn’t seen in years. He tilts his head to the side. “Do Qunari watch a lot of movies, generally?”

 

“Nah,” Bull shakes his head. “Not really that big in Par Vollen. I was in Serehon for a while, though. A few of the bigger cities had movie theaters. Didn’t have much for movies, though, but they had enough. In December they’d play old Christmas movies for the whole month. Or, they used too. I’m not sure if it’s still standing anymore.”

 

“What was Serehon like?” Dorian asks. “Besides the war. In Minarathous, all we really hear about is the Qunari savagery.”

 

“Hot, mostly. Good people, too, when they haven’t been damaged by the war. At this point, though, I think just about everyone has. The Qunari are no more savage than the Tal Vashoth or ‘Vints. Just shitty all around,” Bull says. Before Dorian can say anything further, he stands up, joints popping. “Anyway, what do you people do ‘round here for breakfast?”

 

What they do around here for breakfast is help themselves, while Dorian’s parents avoid them. The system works itself out marvelous, and it does for a few days. Dorian’s parents continue to make barbed comments, which Bull shrugs off. Bull has made it an art form, in fact.

 

“What does your friend..do, exactly?” Aquinea asks, once. They never speak to Bull directly. Or by name. Regardless, Bull answers each time.

 

“Well, in my spare time I’m a boxing coach at a local gym,” Bull says. Which, as it turns it, isn’t a lie. Still, it’s exactly the right thing to say to make Aquinea turn up her nose. Dorian makes sure to make a comment about Bull’s muscles. The tensions grow each day, however, and Dorian waits for the inevitable fight. He can feel it in the air, anger radiating off of Halward in waves. Until, their fifth morning there, Halward decides to cross a line.

 

Like proper cowards, they’ve waited until Bull went upstairs to turn on him. Dorian’s folded up into an armchair, book in lap. Halward _was_ reading the paper on the couch, but has chosen to just….stare at Dorian for some time now. Dorian’s already bristling, waiting for the first blow.

 

“What are you thinking?” Halward asks, and Dorian tenses. His voice is low, angry, like the time he scolded Dorian for lighting a girl’s hair on fire.  “Bringing someone home like that? What will anyone think of us?”

 

“Really?” Dorian fires back, “Truly, that’s still all your concerned about? Your _public appearance_? What about your son’s happiness?”

 

“Oh, Dorian.” Halward shakes his head. “It’s not that we want you to be unhappy, but this is just absurd. A _Qunari_.”

 

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Of course. My happiness only matters if it’s what you also want.”

 

“That’s not what I said-“

 

“It’s what you meant.” Dorian slams the book closed. Hard, loud. His whole body feels warm, flush with anger.

 

Halward sighs. “Dorian, it’s Christmas. We’re not meant to fight like this.”

 

“Then that’s simple then,” Dorian says tersely. “Stop.”

 

“I just wanted- Dorian, what would your friends have thought. Alexios and Felix. Is that they would have wanted for you? Working at a measly museum in _Orlais_ and dating one a bloody Qunari? Do you think they’d be happy for you?”

 

The minute Halward says their names, Dorian’s throat constricts. That grief he’d swallowed down is back, angry and choking. “ _Don’t_.” Dorian says thickly. His tone is harsh, ragged, and Halward flinches. Dorian stands to face down his father. “They are not your pawns to use against me, father. They were real, and kind, and more family that you’ve ever been to me. You have _no right_ to use them against me like that. That you have the gall – the absolute nerve too-“ Dorian stops, swallows thickly. “It makes me sick.”

 

Halward only gets out a “Dorian” before Dorian’s turned on his heel. The house always feels larger after fights, Dorian’s noticed. Suddenly the flight of stairs to his room feels like it takes hours to climb. Glossy paintings of long-dead Pavus’s seem to stare out at Dorian as he stomps his way up.

 

It’s Bull’s turn to sleep on the bed, and he’s already made himself comfortable under the blankets. His eyepatch has been placed, carefully, on the nightstand, revealing a mass of scars where Bull’s eye was. Their first night there, Dorian had wanted to ask. He didn’t, however, because asking someone about their missing eye fell into the tact category of: “Confused and oblivious five year old”.

 

Dorian must look upset, because the moment he slams the door behind him, The Iron Bull is putting his book down, eyebrows rising. Dorian leans back to rest against the wall. His breathing a little too ragged and eyes too warm. Anger mixes with a feeling of foolishness.

 

“You good? What happened?” Bull asks.

 

“What always happens,” Dorian says, with a little roll of his eyes. He wants to leave it at that. Go get drunk and forget this happened, but Bull is looking at him imploringly. Curiously.

 

Bull nods. Slowly. “Ah.”

Something snaps. Maybe it’s Bull’s look, or just the desire to talk to someone. Dorian huffs. “Two good friends of mine passed away recently. My father has decided that now would be a great time to use their memory to tell me my choices are wrong.” He forces the anger into his voice so his voice doesn’t crack.

 

Slowly, Bull starts to frown. That Bull is offended offers Dorian some small validation. “Anything I can do?” Bull asks.

 

“Just stay out of it.”

 

*******

 

Iron Bull, of course, does not.

 

That would be easy. Simple. Just a few days of embarrassing Dorian’s parents before he could go home and drink it off. Instead, they make it less than a full day before Dorian’s parents try and pick another fight. They’re gathered around the dinner table, finishing up the last of the desert (which Bull is devouring), when Aquinea looks solemnly at Dorian. He meets her gaze, levelly, and makes a point of slipping his hand on Bull’s thigh. This time Aquinea hardly blinks.

 

“How’s work going, Dorian?”

 

He blinks. Unexpected. It’s also been close to three days and this is the first time anyone’s asked about his job.

 

“Quite well, thank you,” Dorian replies. “We’re working on proposing some exhibits in the new year, and hoping to increase our budget.”

 

Aquinea pushes around the olives on her plate. “Yes. Well. Dorian, love,” (This is the exact moment Dorian realizes he’s in trouble), “We just wish you’d embraced your potential more. You did so well in your political science courses.”

 

Dorian tenses. Then forces himself to exhale. “I just wish you’d understand that, perhaps, I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps. It’s been nearly six years, at this point I don’t think I’m changing my plans anytime soon.”

 

Halward decides that apparently this is the moment to intervene. “Now, Dorian. It’s just because we love you, and we’d love to see you succeed.”

 

Dorian has a response that’s biting and bitter, but The Iron Bull steps in instead. The Bull’s hand lies flat, calm and relaxed on the table, but his gaze is hard and steely. It’s a sharp change from what Bull’s look liked the rest of the week.

 

“He has succeeded,” Bull says simply. His voice doesn’t raise, but the graveness of it catches both Halward and Aquinea’s attention. “Multiple times. You realize your son manages an entire exhibit at a museum? That’s not an easy job. We may not have parents under the Qun, but we are proud of our own. Are you not?”

 

Someone standing up for Dorian has been a novelty since Felix and Alexios died. It’s not something he’s sure he appreciates, from the crushing weight in his chest and the flaming of his cheeks. It’s not a flattery, it’s a mockery now. Dorian Pavus bringing home a Qunari was one thing, having one defend him is entirely another.

 

“It’s not that we’re not proud,” says Halward, “We just don’t agree with his choices.”

 

“That’s quite enough for one evening, father.” Dorian says, sharply.

 

*******

 

 

Dorian waits until they’re alone in his room before turning on him.

 

“What, exactly, was that?” Dorian asks. He paces the floor, hands on his hips, while Bull leans back against a wall and watches.

 

“Look, they’re assholes, Dorian. We both know it. I just actually called them on it.”

 

“Yes, but. Well.” Dorian groans. “It was you and - Maker’s Breath, there goes any respect they had for me-“

 

“Did you think they had any for you before?” Bull asks. He still sounds so calm, though is tone is suspiciously flat.

 

Dorian throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know, perhaps. But if they did, it’s gone now. You do understand what you’ve done, yes? Dorian Pavus, social pariah, allowing a _Qunari_ to defend him in a domestic spat? Andraste’s ass, the things they’ll say. I looked _weak_ , which is very much one of the things I refuse to be.”

 

If possible, Bull’s face has become even more expressionless. “Dorian, allowing someone to defend you _isn_ ’t weak.”

 

“Oh, yes, but someone like you? A _bloody Qunari_? Surely you understand. Allowing someone ‘lesser’ to defend a great Tevinter citizen? That was my fight, Bull. It wasn’t your place to step in.”

 

Dorian hasn’t stopped moving, pacing and gesturing while frustration and shame run through him like adrenaline. It pumps through him, forcing words out of his mouth. Forcing him to keep looking at the floor, because if he looks at Bull the words won’t come out.

 

There is a long pause, and Dorian’s feet start to slow. When Bull speaks, his voice is lower. “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”

 

Dorian answers without thinking. “Perhaps it’s best you leave.”

 

Bull nods, once. “Okay.”

 

***

 

This idea was foolish, Dorian realizes. From his bedroom window, he watches Bull’s van drive as guilt pools in his stomach. Typical, really. Someone is kind to him, and he yells at them. Calls them _lesser_. Truly, he is a Pavus by birth. Dorian sinks back into his bed, burying his face into his pillow.

          What the fuck is he doing?

 

Sera. Send help. I am an idiot. Sent at 10:37 P.M. December 24th.

 

**New fone. Who diss? Sent at 10:38 P.M. December 24 th.**

 

Maker’s breath Sera. NOT helping. Sent at 10:41 P.M. December 24th.

 

**Alright alright! Sorry. Whats up?? Parents being pissants again? Sent at 10:44 P.M. December 24 th.**

Not quite. I think, this time, I was the “piss-ant”. 10:48 P.M. December 24th.

**You???? A piss-ant???? Who’da thunk. Look. Whatever you did, just apologize. Don’t do that huffy-sulky snit thing you do. Stop being a tit and apologize and things will be ass up in no time. Sent at 10:52 P.M. December 24 th.**

**OH! UNLESS YOU WERE A PISSANT TO YOUR PARENTS. DO NOT APOLOGIZE TO YOUR ASS-TIT PARENTS. Sent at 10:53 P.M. December 24 th.**

Thanks, Sera. I think? Sent at 10:55 P.M. December 24th.

Also, “ass-up” is a bad thing. Sent at 10:55 P.M. December 24th.

 

**For real? Thought it’d be a good thing, specially for you ;) ;) Sent at 10:56 P.M. December 24 th.**

Ugh. Sera, no. Tell Dagna hello, by the way. Did you find fireworks? Sent at 10:57 P.M. December 24th.

**Nah, couldn’t. No problem, tho! Widdle is making some for us. Sent at 11:00 P.M. December 24 th.**

 

When you get yourself arrested (and you will), I’ll make sure to smuggle you alcohol. Sent at 11:01 P.M. December 24th.

**This is why I love you. Sent at 11:02 P.M. December 24 th.**

 

**MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!! HOPE YOU HAVE AN ASS UP DAY 3 <=8 Sent at 12:04 A.M. December 25th. **

Merry Christmas, too! But don’t have an ass-up day, because no one wants that. Sent at 8:45 A.M. December 25th.

 

 

Pavus family Christmas’s don’t involve present opening until the evening. That was, historically, when all the family could arrive and fawn over Dorian’s delightful presents and youthful charm. Even after the grandparents had died, the tradition had remained the same. So, come Christmas morning, Dorian has the opportunity to lounge in bed and think about exactly where this plan went wrong. The room is quieter without the Iron Bull. Without his snoring or chattering. Dorian almost misses it, it’s a better companion than shameful silence.

 

Dorian doesn’t last long, the drive for caffeine pushes him down to the kitchen. Unfortunately, Halward is sitting at the dining room table, breakfast in front of him and newspaper in hand. Dorian scowls, almost instinctively. Halward only glances up briefly, before looking back at the paper. Typical.

 

“So your friend left?" Halward asks, clearly relieved.

 

Dorian doesn't respond at first, instead settling with a withering glare on his way to the coffee maker. He’s not sure he has a civil response.

 

"For the best, then," Halward continues. "Their kind is too barbaric to last long in societies like ours." 

 

Dorian tenses. His words hit him like a freight train. Too similar to what Dorian said last night. Shit. He should be better than this. This is why he left in the first place. To avoid becoming like them. Halward doesn’t stop, though, he continues oblivious to Dorian’s disgust. So typical of him, such blatant disregard for his sons feelings. 

"You didn't know him." Dorian says sharply. He can be better than Halward. Will be.

"And you did? You know the Qunari are full of liars and spies."

"Huh. Funny, that. Both barbaric and able to concoct elaborate lies."

Halward elects to ignore this statement. "You're not suited for a life like that. Just come back and stay with us for a while. Aquinea and I are worried about you.”

Something else snaps. The idea so preposterous Dorian almost laughs. “Actually, father, I think it's about time I left."

 

He purposefully leaves without saying another word. He calls a cab once he's out the door, waiting on the driveway. It will be some time. Lots of people need cabs on Christmas day, so Dorian settles down on one of the suitcase and 

waits. He tries to map out the rest of the day.

 

Dorian doesn't do impulsive. Hates this particular brand of it. Unless he gets incredibly lucky, he will be spending Christmas Eve alone in a train station. Less than ideal, surely. Or he could stay in a hotel. Anything besides spending it with his family. Dorian has no idea how long it will take for a cab to arrive. Still, Dorian pulls his coat a little tighter and settles down to sit on his suitcase. His anger should keep him warm for a while, at least. His foot taps against the snow. His mind races. Why, after all these years, can his parents still get under skin? Or, why was this line? There were so many moments before when he should have left, but why now? Regardless, it’s probably a good thing.

Dorian groans. Makers breath.

 

Dorian hears the van before he sees it. At first, he assumes it’s the cab.

 

That would be remarkably early, however, and far too loud. The rattle of Bull’s van is distinct. It parks along the opposite side of the road, Bull peering out the window. He seems to notice Dorian, squinting before climbing our of the car. He’s dressed for the cold, a thick green coat with a maroon scarf wrapped around the collar. He’s managed to wrap ear muff over his horns to cover his ears.

 

“What are you doing here?” Dorian asks first. His tone is probably too harsh, residual anger spilling over from inside. 

“Came to pick up a book,” Bull replies simply. He keeps eyeing Dorian. “Everything alright?” 

Clearly, it’s not.  Dorian snorts bitterly. “Absolutely wonderful, in fact.” 

Bull takes a long moment, seemingly mulling something over. It looks like he's solving some sort of mental puzzle. Dorian tugs on his scarf. Finally, Bull reaches down and grabs Dorian’s other bag. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” His tone is determined, kind, like this makes the most sense in the world. It makes Dorian speechless. 

It takes until Bull is nearly back at the van before Dorian moves. “Wait,” He says, and Iron Bull stills. “What about your book?” 

Bull gives Dorian a look, this one full of meaning Dorian refuses to think about. Bull shrugs. “Wasn’t very good, anyway.” 

 

 

Bull’s van is mercifully warm, and silent. Sera’s advice, the good bit, not the ass up part, runs in Dorian’s mind, and before Bull is even settled Dorian blurts out: “I’m sorry.”

 

Bull stops. Glances over.

 

“For last night,” Dorian continues. “It wasn’t fair of me. At all. I was being a. Well. Sera used the word piss-ant. I think she may have been right with that one.  So I apologize for that, and I don’t expect you to forgive me but-“

 

“Hey,” Bull stops Dorian with a look. “It’s fine, Dorian. Families make shit weird.  Doesn’t make what you said any nicer, but you’re forgiven.”

 

It’s easier than Dorian expects. The acceptance gives him pause. Then, softly, he manages a: “thank you, for everything”.

 

“Nah, don’t worry about it. You need to talk about whatever just happened?”

 

Dorian shakes his head. The kindness is near overwhelming. He can already feel something warm and wet against his eyes. “Absolutely not. But thank you for asking.”

 

Bull nods, then hums. “So, where too?”

 

“Haven’t the slightest. Before now, I was gambling at spending my day at the train station waiting for a ride back to Val Royeaux. Pretty much everywhere in Minrathous is closed Christmas day.”

 

“Not everywhere.” Bull gives Dorian a side-ways look and a small grin. “You mind staying in the city a bit longer? I may have someplace we can go.”

 

 

Not particularly, should be Dorian’s response. Instead, it’s: “Only if there’s alcohol involved.”

 

Bull laughs heartily. “Oh, there will definitely be alcohol involved.”

 

 

“My foreman, Krem, he’s a good guy,” Bull begins as he drives. “Well, he’s got family up here. Left a week ago to go visit his dad. Apparently, some of my other guys came up to visit and help around the house. Turns out, they’re all around for Christmas. An authentic Chargers Christmas party.”

 

Dorian asks what, exactly, he should expect, and Bull launches into a proud speech about every single member of his crew. Dorian loses track of the names after Skinner, but nods along and listens to Bull speak. Bull navigates Minrathous like he’s been there before, and eventually they pull up outside of a small two-storey house that’s covered in Christmas lights. Bull offers to carry Dorian’s bags, but this is the final affront on Dorian’s perceived fragility, so he insists on carrying both his and Bull’s things. He regrets it the moment his back cracks trying to pick up Bull’s bag.

 

The inside of the Aclassi family home looks exactly as homey and mundane as Dorian expects. The wallpapering is older, faded and peeling, and clearly in need of some much needed work. A young man opens the door for them, leading them down a long hallway. Arches on either side of the hall lead into the kitchen and a living area, respectively. The hallway ends at a steep flight of stairs that seem to be doubling as storage for an assortment of goods.

 

“Krem,” Bull starts, clapping the man on the shoulder. “This is Dorian. Dorian, this is Kreme Brule, my foreman.”     

 

 

“ _Chief_ ,” Krem says with an eyeroll. He smiles at Dorian, shaking his hand. “Pleasure. Not sure how long you guys are planning on staying, but I convinced Skinner and Rocky to share a room so you’ve got a place to put your bags, at least.”

 

“We’ll stay for dinner, at least,” Bull says.

 

Krem nods. “Sounds good, chief. You wanna give me a hand in the kitchen in a bit? I don’t trust Rocky to keep my kitchen from going up in flames.”

 

“Sure thing, Krem. Where should we put our things?”

 

“Your room is just up the stairs. It’s the one Skinner and Rocky aren’t fighting in.”

 

The room Dorian and Bull are temporarily sharing isn’t particularly large, but it has two beds that are separated by a wooden end table. If they do stay the night, at least neither of them need sleep on the floor.  Dorian drops the bags down with relief. Bull leans against the doorframe, blocking Dorian’s entire view of the hallway.

 

“What’d you want to do, Dorian? Need anything?” Bull tilts his head to the side.

 

Dorian sighs. “A hot shower, perhaps, and a stiff drink.”

 

“Gotcha,” Bull says. “Krem said the bathroom was down the hall to the left, towels are in there. I’m gonna go help Krem whip up some good eats for tonight, you can crash up here for a bit if you need.”

 

 

Dorian enjoys a wonderfully hot shower, if lacking in water pressure.  When he returns to his room, there’s a brightly coloured drink on the end table with a note folded up next to it.

 

“A Qunari’s Favourite Drink – Alcohol included.”

 

Whatever it is, it’s certainly fruity. There’s barely any taste of alcohol, instead it’s drowned out by a combination of orange and pineapple. It isn’t bad, that Dorian will admit. He’d almost prefer the burn of whiskey or rum, it’s been that sort of day. Merry Christmas, he thinks to himself, and lies back down on the bed. It creaks under his weight. Instead of thinking about his parents, he focuses on the sounds in the house. Skinner and Rocky are, indeed, arguing still. This time, it sounds like, over the merit of various Christmas movies. Downstairs, there’s the clattering of dishes and the sound of Bull’s laughter. It’s a shockingly calming soundtrack for Dorian’s ensuing nap.

 

Bull wakes Dorian up hours later. Dorian, immediately, is almost blinded by the sheer festivity of Bull’s sweater. It’s the one he had sent Dorian a picture of, but this close it’s clear it’s been handmade. Likely by Bull armed with a glue gun. He covers his eyes and groans. “Maker’s breath, take that off.”

 

Bull laughs. “Oh, you want me shirtless, then?”

 

“Andraste, no, that’s very much _not_ what I meant.”

 

“Alright, well, if you change your mind you just gotta let me know.”

 

Dorian stares dryly at Bull, who is grinning good naturedly. “I can assure you that won’t be happening.” There’s less heat to his statement than he’d like, but Dorian blames it on his foggy-headedness.

 

“Good nap?” Bull asks, sitting down. The bed visibly dips under his weight, but Bull seems to pay it no mind.

 

“A much needed one.” Dorian still feels slightly sleep hazy, but since the sun is beginning to set it’s likely about time Dorian gets up. “Thanks for the drink, by the way, that was also needed.”

 

“There’ll be more where that came from.” Bull stretches out, joints popping. His smile grows lazy. “The Chargers throw a good party, even if it’s just the four of us.”

 

“From the sounds of them,” Dorian says with a nod towards where he presumes Rocky and Skinner are sleeping, “I figured. By the way, since we’re no longer staying at my parents house, your job is officially over.”

 

Dorian pulls his back closer, rummaging through the top pocket until he finds an envelope heavy with gold. He holds it out towards Bull. “I’ll still pay you for the full five days, since it’s entirely my fault you left early in the first place.”

 

Bull takes a long look at the envelope, then slowly pushes it back towards Dorian. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

 

Dorian freezes, arm still partially outstretched. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“I’ll pass,” Bull repeats. “I didn’t do this because I needed money. Like I said, I was curious. I wasn’t sure what to expect when Sera brought it up with me – she was _very_ drunk – but then I actually met you and realized it’d be one hell of an offer to pass up. Considering everything, it’d be shitty of me to take your money. So keep it. Use to buy something nice, or whatever.”

 

Dorian has nothing to say. Or if he does, it’s stuck behind the lump forming in his throat. Bull doesn’t seem to notice. He gets up and starts poking around through his own bags.

 

“Speaking of, I got you something.” Still seemingly oblivious to Dorian’s internal emotional crisis, Bull pulls out a gift back that’s overflowing with tissue paper.

 

“Thanks,” Dorian says, weakly. “I’m afraid that I. Well, I didn’t get you anything.”

 

Bull shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.” Once Dorian starts opening the presents, he continues speaking, seemingly explaining. “I was planning on giving it to you in front of your parents. Thought it’d probably piss ‘em off if we got matching outfits for the party.”

 

Thank the Maker, it isn’t the exact same as Bull’s sweater. It’s a maroon red sweater with a high neckline and baggy shape. The image of a Christmas Tree has been ironed on, with “Merry Christmas” curved around the shape.

 

“This is horrifying,” Dorian says, though his tone doesn’t show it. The fury towards his parents is still there, but the thought of their reaction to _this_ makes him feel slightly better. Pavus Christmas Parties are black tie affairs. To wear something so casual and blatantly festive oh, it would drive them mad. And that Bull thought of it means something too. It’s rare that someone shows such foresight into aggravating someone.

 

Bull scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, obviously the situation has changed but since that won’t fit over my horns you’re more than welcome too it. You don’t need to wear it, or anything.”

 

Dorian looks at the Iron Bull. This isn’t quite the shirt he’d normally wear. _But_ , it is a Christmas gift, and Bull almost looks nervous. Dorian sighs. Hopefully no one brought a camera. “I don’t get the chance to be upsettingly Christmas-y everyday. I should take advantage of it, I expect. It still looks less ridiculous than whatever you have on.”

 

“It’s _festive and handmand_ ,” Bull protests. “It it’s upsetting you that much, I’ll just take it off.” As if to further his point, Bull tugs up on the ends of his sweater. He lifts it slowly. Tinsel starts to fall off the shirt and settle around him. Bull manages to pull his shirt up just over his belly button before Dorian stops him with a huff and an eyeroll.

 

“For Andraste’s sake, _keep your shirt on_.”

 

Bull laughs. “Alright, alright. Dinner should be ready in like twenty minutes, I’ll let you get ready.”

 

 

The six of them gather around the Aclassi’s small dinner table, the food spread out over the middle of it. There’s a duck, roasted in the oven, mashed potatoes and a handful of side dishes. Some, Dorian recognizes, others are foreign. These, it turns out, are Bull’s contributions to the dinner.  It also turns out that Bull can cook. Quite well, in fact.

 

No one seems to have dressed up for this. Krem wears a sweater and jeans, while his father wears pajamas pants and an old T-Shit. Rocky and Skinner wear band shirts, though both have on big santa hats. Even though Dorian and Bull stand out, no one mentions anything about Dorian’s attire. Bull’s gets poked fun of all night.

 

 It’s certainly less fancy than it would have been at Dorian’s parents, but the conversations are pleasant and warm, and the food is good. The Chargers speak kindly to Dorian, sharing food, drink, and stories until Dorian feels comfortable to chime in as well. By the end of dinner, Dorian is two drinks in and chatting amiably. He has the pleasure of watching the Chargers exchange gifts. Rocky gets Skinner an ugly Christmas sweater, a gaudy white thing that Rocky printed a photo of Skinner on. Skinner gets Krem a book on witchcraft to help with his “Tevinter Blood Magic”. Bull gets a thing of mistletoe, with a string long enough that he can tie it up between his horns. Naturally, this gets wrapped around Bull’s horns almost immediately. Laughing, Bull leans over Krem and puckers his lips while Krem folds his arms and scowls. Dorian settles onto the couch, smiling languidly.

 

Bull catches his eye and gives him a friendly grin, and Dorian feels something stutter in his chest. It’s almost definitely the drinks, but this doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Instead, Dorian finds himself smiling back.

 

It’s definitely not how he expected to spend his Christmas. A positive step away from stilted and awkward conversations at his parents, and better than alone in Val Royeaux, he’ll give it that. And he wins against Rocky at Wicked Grace and talks history with Krem’s father. Surprisingly, Dorian finds, it’s one of the better Christmas’s he’s had in years.

 

 

Later, once Krem’s father retires for the night, and Krem, Rocky, and Skinner sit down to watch TV, Dorian joins Bull in the kitchen. Bull is leaning against the counter, nibbling on leftover Christmas sweets. The dishes are scattered throughout the room, left there because Krem’s father insisted he’d take care of it later.

 

“Hey,” Bull says, with a nod. “Want a cookie?”

 

“No, thanks.” Dorian says. “Enjoying the party?” He steps closer to Bull, resting a hip against the counter. Up close, the cookies do look tempting. Bull does too, Dorian thinks, before his brain can stop it. His sweater is the most revolting thing Dorian has ever seen, and right now it’s catching crumbs like a fly trap catches flies, but Bull is grinning at Dorian with a soft sort of twinkle in his eye. The same twinkle that’s been there the past month, Dorian realizes.

 

“Good food, good people,” Bull says, with a pointed look at Dorian. “I’m hardly an expert, but I’d say as far as Christmas’s go, this is a pretty good one. How about you? This holding a candle to your family Christmas?”

 

“Oh, hardly.” Dorian snorts. “There’s no caviar, my Great Aunt Lavinia isn’t around to make some poor waitstaff cry, and I’m wearing a ridiculous sweater instead of a suit. That I looked marvelous in, I’ll add. It’s a pity I didn’t get to wear it.” Dorian grins softly at Bull. “But this has been lovely, I’ll admit. Thank you for bringing me, Bull. I really appreciate it.”

 

“You’re welcome. You doin’ okay, by the way?”

 

To this, Dorian shrugs. “I will be. Once I’m back home and working my menial and disappointing job, I’m sure I’ll be more than content that it looked as if I ran away from home with a Qunari on Christmas Day.”

 

Bull chuckles. “Quite the scandal you left behind, from the sounds of it.”

 

“It’s more fun that way.” Maybe it’s not quite the scandal Dorian wanted to created, but it will most definitely do. Dorian looks up, briefly, noticing the mistletoe still dangling between Bull’s horns. Then he looks at Bull, standing close enough that their shoulders are touching. Dorian thinks about several things in that moment. About what would be a bigger scandal: Dorian faking a relationship with a Qunari, or actually being in one?

 

About how ridiculous the sweater Bull’s wearing is. This close he can see the glue holding it together.

 

About the way Bull is looking at him, which really he’s thought about too much already today.

 

About the way Bull keeps looking at his lips, specifically. Then, about kissing Bull.

 

“Are you intending to wear that mistletoe all night?” Dorian asks, arching one eyebrow. There’s a hint hidden in there, tucked between his tone and his smile.

 

Bull leans in, ever so slightly. He moves his arm, wrapping it behind Dorian’s back. There’s only the barest hint of contact, as Bull’s hand is still resting on the counter, but Dorian is now nearly pressed against Bull’s chest.

 

“I was intending to get a kiss first.” Bull’s grin is coy now, teasing and close. Giving Dorian the chance to make the first move.

 

“Well.” Dorian’s heart feels pressed right up against his ribcage. “If it means you’ll take the damn thing off.” His voice shakes, despite how dismissive he tries to sound. He cups both sides of Bull’s face, tugging down until their lips meet. Bull doesn’t waste a second to take charge, slowly moving Dorian back until he’s trapped between Bull and the counter. Dorian nips, lightly, at Bull’s lower lip. Bull makes a sort of hungry sound, deep in his throat, that Dorian finds delightful. So, he does it again. Bull’s hands are everywhere all at once, tracing the small of his back and cupping the side of his face and tangling in his hair. Bull shifts his attention to Dorian’s neck, biting and kissing his way up to Dorian’s earlobe.

 

“Anything else you want me to take off?” Bull asks. Dorian can feel the curve of Bull’s smile against his face. Dorian laughs, breathlessly.

 

“I’d have no complaints if you’d lose that sweater.”

 

Bull chuckles. His breath is hot against Dorian’s neck, which Bull starts to focus on again. Dorian lets his eyes flutter shut.

 

“I’m about to lose my dinner,” a voice says. Bull pulls back, just far enough to see who’s speaking. Dorian is still, essentially, pinned against the counter.

 

“In my kitchen, really?” Krem stands in the doorway, arms folded, and scowling. Dorian hides his face with his hands, stifling a groan. His face is flaming, but Bull seems entirely unabashed.  “You two have a room, chief.”

 

They both apologize, Dorian more sincerely than Bull, and quickly leave the kitchen. Before the reach the stairs, Krem’s calling after them. “And keep it down! Some of us want to _sleep_ tonight.”

 

 

Sleep is the one thing Bull and Dorian don’t get much of. The twin beds get pushed together, Bull’s sweater is discarded by the door. The rest of their clothes get scattered about the room. Dorian’s shirt is tossed over the lamp, pants accidently kicked under the bed. Bull’s eyepatch nearly winds up in the garbage. Dorian’s not entirely sure how late it is when they settle, but he’s so achingly exhausted he couldn’t care. A sort of heavy contentment spreads throughout his limbs, and each circle Bull traces sends tingles up his spine. He hums, and shifts closer.

 

“Bull?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Merry Christmas.”

 

Bull’s chuckle is quiet, but his chest rumbles. “You too.”

 

**Sera**

**Hey, wanker, movies at your place tonight? U R coming home, yea? Sent at 3:20 P.M. December 26 th, 2015.**

 

Not tonight, sorry. I’m taking Bull out for dinner. Tomorrow? Sent at 3:26 P.M. December 26th.

 

**OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Sent at 3:27 P.M. December 26 th.**

 

Sera, it’s just dinner. Please don’t make it weird. Sent at 3:27 P.M. December 26th.

 

**DID U RIDE THE BULL???? DORIAN. OMG OMG DORIAN. Sent at 3:28 P.M. December 26 th.**

 

**3 <=8 3<=8 ;) Sent at 3:28 P.M. December 26th.**

  

Don’t make it weird, I said! Why do you insist on making it weird. Sent at 3:29 P.M. December 26th.

 

**Also, yeah, tomorrow’s good. Bring Bull. Sent at 4:55 P.M. December 26 th.**

*******

 

A year later, a new picture frame finds a place on Dorian’s desk. It’s a nicer frame, a polished wood with no goofy writing. Inside is a picture of Bull and Dorian. It’s from Dorian’s birthday party, so Bull is wearing a pointed party hat meant for children. They’re both smiling at the camera, Bull’s arm wrapped around Dorian’s shoulders. In the background, Sera sits on Dorian’s counter and is flipping the camera off.

 

When Halward emails to, yet again, invite Dorian to the family’s Christmas, Dorian marks it as spam and doesn’t give it a second thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Look. I have no idea what AU this is. Modern Dragon is with Dragon Age money and dating, but also real months and Nicki Minaj. This is actually more of a NIcki Minaj AU than a Dragon Age one, I think.


End file.
